Same Coin
by hell-whim
Summary: Roy meets Edward, in a different world. Modern AU, repost from tumblr


**Note:** Apologies for the garbled mess of the original upload. I have no idea what happened!

 **Same Coin**

The Elric kid enrolls five weeks into the semester and introduces himself from his desk in the back, addressing the pockmarked wood instead of his new classmates.

"My name is Edward," he says in a flat voice, "but I prefer Ed. I come from out east. I used to be home-schooled."

He sits sort of heavily in the creaking chair, and the empty right sleeve of his shirt comes untucked from the uniform vest. Still staring at the desktop, Ed pushes it back into place. Every morning Mustang calls roll, he answers with only a quiet nod, never looking up.

Recess he always spends inside—not surprising, considering how long it takes him each morning to get out of his overcoat and boots. It's a struggle for Mustang to manage at first, until Ms. Hawkeye offers to let him sit in her classroom. The kindergartners have snack and reading time then, and Ed doesn't mind hanging out with the younger children.

"He's so quiet," Ms. Hawkeye tells Mustang in the lounge. Seven weeks in and snow is starting to drift over the swings and slides. Mustang brings over a cup of chamomile tea with his coffee, and Ms. Hawkeye thanks him with a smile.

"What does he do?"

"Just sits in the corner and reads his books. He asked me for a dictionary once."

"What for?"

Ms. Hawkeye shrugs.

Ten weeks in, and Mustang finally meets Ed's guardians.

"Not his mother," Mrs. Curtis confirms. "Trisha—rest her soul—asked me to look after her boys if anything happened."

"Boys?" Mustang asks.

"There's a little brother," Mr. Curtis says, in a gravelly voice. "Alphonse."

Out of curiosity, Mustang looks through the records, but there's only one Elric enrolled.

"I didn't hear anything," Ms. Hawkeye says. Eleven weeks. Christmas soon, and the kids are cutting paper snowflakes. Ed is sitting with Winry Rockbell, nodding mutely as she chatters away. "Maybe he's too young yet for school?"

Christmas break comes and goes. A week of obligations, a day of lull, a weekend of too many possibilities. He'll propose next year, he tells himself, when the time is right.

At the start of spring semester, Ed is still there in the back of his classroom, but now he has a stiff plastic prosthetic arm to match his leg. Mustang has seen flashes of the leg before, helping Ed change from wet winter boots to the required leather shoes, and this arm is more of the same: oddly yellow, with pins and screws to adjust the joints. His false hand is bigger than the real hand by half, forever formed into a relaxed half-curl.

It's too cold for recess, so Ed gets to stay in the classroom with everyone else. Sometimes Winry sits with him, but mostly he's alone, reading his books, holding the pages back with his false hand.

Mustang doesn't like to pry—doesn't want to spy or interfere—but he passes between the rows of desks and his eyes wander across Ed's, and he stops mid-step.

"Those are pretty advanced books," Mustang says. _Gross Anatomy_ and _Field Guide to Acute Trauma_ and a dictionary stamped on the page's edge with Ms. Hawkeye's familiar feather emblem. Ed flinches under attention. "You understand all that stuff?"

"Some of it," Ed says quietly, addressing a dog-eared page featuring a cross-section of the cervical spine. "Some of the words aren't in the dictionary."

"Where'd you get these books? I know Miss Sheska doesn't keep more than a picture book about the skeleton."

"They were my—my _father's_ ," Ed says, and Mustang can just hear the twist of a sneer in his voice.

"Was he a doctor?"

"No," Ed says, and there's a finality in his tone that suggests the subject is closed.

"Sort of cheeky for a six-year-old," Mustang complains in the teacher's lounge, as always to Ms. Hawkeye who only smiles over the rim of her teacup.

"And you were the picture of obedience at that age?"

"I waited to rebel until I was fifteen," Mustang replies, a bit surly, "like everyone else."

He makes special efforts—five weeks in, and while Ed isn't exactly bullied, he's often left out of the children's games. Winry appears to be his only steady friend.

"So, are you interested in this kind of stuff?" Mustang asks, gesturing to the books. "You want to be a doctor or something?"

"No," Ed says. "It's just research."

He can join in on art, at least, when the paper is taped down to his desk.

"What's this?" Mustang asks, peering over Ed's shoulder. Four figures in the drawing—a diminutive red-coated blond that can only be Ed, a black-haired man and woman who must be the Curtises, and fourth figure, curiously tall and uniformly grey.

"Family," Ed mumbles. His crayon flickers over the grey figure. "That's my little brother. In his armor."

At conferences, he sees Mrs. Curtis again.

"Ed's a brilliant boy," Mustang says. "Well-behaved, quiet, studious. His work is far beyond that of his classmates—if he stays enrolled here, I'll recommend him for the advanced reading classes. They don't start until second grade, but I can give you some supplemental materials."

"Thank you," Mrs. Curtis says with a tired grin. "We try to keep him entertained—but the mind on that boy is always running."

"I've seen it before. Smart kids need stimulation, or they lose focus and drive. I'm happy to help out however I can, Mrs. Curtis."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Mustang. Was there anything else?"

He passes over the clipboard to be signed and blurts the question before he can stop himself.

"I'm sorry to pry, Mrs. Curtis, but I have to ask—Ed's mentioned a brother a couple of times, but he's the only Elric enrolled."

The pen pauses, and a little blot of ink appears beneath the tip.

"Alphonse," Mrs. Curtis says quietly, addressing the tabletop. "He's five. In the accident that... that killed their mother, Alphonse was very severely injured. Broken neck. He's been on life support since it happened—paralyzed."

"I—I'm so sorry to hear that."

Mrs. Curtis sits back with a sigh, meeting Mustang's eyes again.

"Ed thinks he can fix it," she says heavily. "We've explained over and over, but he's convinced. The hubris of children—he'll find the truth no one else has. Get his little brother's body back."

She is his last of the day—Mustang walks Mrs. Curtis to the entrance and holds the door for her, waving a farewell. He stays there a long while, hands in his pockets, contemplating the shifting patterns in the carpet.

"Everything alright?" Ms. Hawkeye asks, and he glances back at her in surprise, as though returning from a dream.

He offers to drive her home, and she accepts, and on the way to her apartment, he relays the whole story.

"That poor boy," Ms. Hawkeye says, hand at her mouth, as Mustang parks in front of her building and sits back, his brow creased in thought. "Makes you think how short life really is."

"Yeah," Mustang sighs. "But that's a hell of a determination that kid has. Everyone in your life telling you to let go, but you tell them all to shove it and keep moving."

"Determination. Stubbornness. Same coin."

"Think so?" Mustang asks, turning to grin at her, but her face is soft in the twilight—contemplative.

"We should get married," she says, leaning across the seat to kiss him.

Five weeks left of the semester. Mustang buys a ring and book about medical engineering.


End file.
